Míriel 's Task
by Encairion
Summary: “And Míriel has dwelt ever since in the house of Vairë, and it is her part to record there the histories of the kin of Finwë and all the deeds of the Noldor.”- 'Morgoth's Ring'


Míriel's Task

_"And Míriel has dwelt ever since in the house of Vairë, and it is her part to record there the histories of the kin of Finwë and all the deeds of the Noldor."_- 'Morgoth's Ring'

She watched.

The orcs lanced what remained of the proud house of Fëanor up on a crude pike. The body had been burned, whipped, beaten, starved, branded, raped, and mutilated beyond recognition.

She had listened to his screams. Her great-grandson, the last of her line.

And he had screamed. The proud blood of Finwë flowed thickly threw his veins, but no amount of pride could have sealed his cracked lips in the end. His tormented cries still rang in the stillness, all the more loudly for they made her recall the screams of another tormented soul -her grandson Maedhros.

She had listened to his screams too, watched his torment, and rescue, but there would be no heroic rescue for this child of Fëanor. He was the last. Was it fitting that the last of that house die broken and ruined? Was it fitting his death, like all the others be bereft of honor? There would be no songs of Celebrimbor, telling of his valiant deeds. They would not sing of the orcs he slew to protect the city he had helped build. There would be no tales of his dark death, defiant until the end. Scream he had, cried in his madness for mercy, cried tears for his _nana_ when they raped him. Cursed his _ada_ when they burned him, but never a word did he tell of the three. The elven rings.

'Was all that pain worth a few bobbles Celebrimbor?' She had asked him, but received no answer. She had asked her grandson's the same, when they had come to join her in death. She had not judged them, had not accused them. She had had no time. She had begged the lord of Arda, Manwë himself, for but a few moments with those she had never met, yet known more fully than any other but perhaps their father. Manwë had granted her but minutes with each.

She could not think of those few moments where she finally got to look into their eyes, without pain. She had seen her son in all of them; she saw this one last glimpse of him in her great-grandson's eyes, too. But he who she would have given all those precious moments of time for, to have but one moment together with, had been thrown into darkness and silenced, her request unfulfilled. She had asked but to look once upon her son's face, and Fëanor the one whose forgiveness she truly needed before peace could ever find her, had been caste into the void, a houseless spirit.

Her spirit cried out again at the injustice of it all. _Had that been too much to ask? Was it not right that she would want to look upon the work of her womb? Had she, along with them, not been punished enough?_

Her shaking hands dropped, to lay motionless in her lap. _No more! _She had had her fill of death and pain. She had chosen to remain here in the timeless halls because she had been weak, young, and naive. She had known nothing of death, but she had learned! Ah, how she had learned. Had she not watched them all, every deed good and ill. Watched every death in glory and despair. Great deeds her people had done, and foul, and through it all she had watched. Watched and wove, here by Vairë 's side. She had completed every weave, tied up every thread. Some soaked with her tears, others, messy and twisted, woven with shaking hands, and a few more perfect and straight, woven in love and laughter.

She raised her hands again, and ran them lovingly over her endless work. She had woven the fate of her husband's house, of her people the Noldor. And she was tired. She had wanted peace and rest in death, but she had found pain, loss, and ...life. She had lived on through the lives of others, _but had she not suffered enough? Had she not paid for her own selfish folly?_

She felt Vairë 's gentle hand on her shoulder. Her eyes turned up to meet the soft blue ones of the Valar.  
"And the others?" The Valar asked.

A vision of a golden haired gray eyed king came first to mind. She knew him of course, had watched him since his birth in Nargothrond all those centuries ago. Then an equally golden haired elleth was shown to her, proud and defiant as always. Her silver haired daughter stood next to her. Again, she knew them both, as she knew all those ever born of the house of Finwë. Lastly a dark haired gray eyed elf lord came into her mind. _So much like his father_, she thought as she gazed again at the familiar features. She loved studying this ellon, such an enigma, with his human blood.

"I have watched, and loved them all their lives. They are the last of my husband's house. But my heart yearns for release, and I think it will be many long and painful years before their stories are finished."

"I cannot tell you what coarse to take my friend," answered the gentle Valar. "I feel the weariness of your spirit, and yet the task is not yet complete. But I feel as you do that there is still much heart ache to come, but much joy as well." Vairë fell silent for a moment, weighing her next words. "You have never asked of them." She said quietly, Míriel turned tortured eyes upon the Valar. "You have never asked what path the dead chose, why?"

"I could not. Could not bear the thought of all those I had watched live and die languishing in the timeless halls. I have always hoped, always wanted to believe they chose rebirth, and yet...."

"And yet, too choose rebirth who mean leaving the Halls of the Dead, leaving you. Alone."

Míriel looked away. "Yes, such selfishness on my part should not be born, but I cannot leave!" She moaned. "I am trapped here in these halls for all time, until the breaking of the world!"

"Hush now, I know the regret you have felt over your decision, but it is done, no good can come of dwelling upon it."

"I know, I know, but I cannot help it! How I have suffered for my foolishness! What did I know of weariness or pain then! I was but a spoiled child choosing my own comfort over those that needed me."

"Do not be so hard on yourself; surely you have paid for whatever wrongs you have done."

"Yes, I have paid! Paid in tears unnumbered! I have watched, and cried, and ached for those lost. My son! My husband! Gone down in fire and darkness..." her voice broke at the last, and Vairë pulled her spirit into her embrace wiping away the bitter tears.

"You have not asked, but I will tell you. Many of the dead have chosen rebirth. There are many who now dwell in Valinor amongst those they love. Finrod, Fingolfin are reunited with their loves, Turgon and his wife, Angrod and even Aredhel… and Finwë. Long he dwelt in these Halls, I think he might have had some hope Fëanor would be released here from the void, or you would join him..." A sob retched from the crumbled spirit in the Valar's arms caused her to pause and stroke the long silver hair. "Shh, Míriel, he has peace now. He will ever ache for that which is gone, but his other children, and their children and their children's children have given him much joy...."

"And Indis?"

Vairë made no reply still stroking the silver head, and Míriel asked no more of her husband's second wife.

"But what of Fingon and Aegnor? And what of Celebrimbor? Will he choose rebirth?"

"Of Celebrimbor I cannot say, it is too soon. I do not know if...." But the Valar did not finish this thought, and Míriel seemed not to notice the slip. The fate of the House of Fëanor was not decided, and Vairë darned not voice her own doubts to the grieving elleth. The chance of Celebrimbor even being offer rebirth was slim at best. "As for Fingon and Aegnor, you know why they linger -you who have sewn their lives into the tapestries of time."

Yes, Míriel knew. They would not leave when no hope of reunion with their hearts desire could be had short of the breaking of the world. Her heart sighed, _so they were all gone. _

Gone on to a new life, even Finwë whom she had believed would never leave the halls of death while there was yet hope for Fëanor . _Then he must have no hope._ She thought with sudden fear. He would have never left if he thought his eldest would ever be returned to him. Míriel felt an iron grip close around her own heart. She realized she had still clung to some scrape of belief that her son would one day be granted peace in the Halls of the dead, along with his seven sons. She knew it was foolish to hope thus, and yet, she could not bring herself to let go. To let go would destroy what little she had left. She could not lose hope, could not abandon her task.

She realized then why she had been given the task of weaver. Why Manwë had declared she could never again walk with the living. It was a penitence. All the pain, grief, and tears she bore, she bore for whom she had abandoned. She bore for her son. That is why she could not stop, why, no matter the pain of watching, helpless, the fates of the living, she would never stop until the fates of all the exiles and their children were decided.

Her hand, now steadied with the knowledge of what would be gained on completion, picked up the thread again. Her eyes met those of her fellow weaver, steady and sure, though tears still cling to her pale cheeks.

Vairë looked into her eyes and knew she understood, at long last. The clear blue eyes of the Valar held all the answer Míriel needed as she set her needle to the unfinished tapestry. Many long years lay ahead. Years of retching despair and grief, but she knew she could bear it. She who had sewn the names of every Noldor slain in the battle of Unnumbered Tears, she who had woven the bitter details of her son's, and grandsons' deeds. She could bear the years ahead, for she now saw the hope in the task complete. Long though the years may be, the end was worth it all. She would hold her only child again in her arms before the worlds end.


End file.
